Phlogiston, Performance Evaluations and a Whole Lotta Blood
by ElsieMacGill
Summary: Engie wants to install the Gunslinger. Pyro's sick of being treated like a child. Medic wants to get started on his latest experiment. Demo and a bottle of laboratory-grade ethanol are caught in the middle of it all. Updates Tuesdays and Thursdays
1. In Which Demo Makes an OSHA Violation

_Hi, everybody! I'm Elsie. I'm new to the TF2 fandom and fanfics in general._

 _Please enjoy this fluffy/bloody tale of friendship and science._

 _Credit to TheMidnightAssassin and Pemm whose fics "Aftermath" and "Sparkler"/"Cryoablation"/"Hold Your Fire" were immensely influential in the development of my headcannon Pyro._

* * *

It was a rare sunny day at Sawmill, the sort of warm bright day where parents forcibly disconnected their offspring from televisions and booted them outside. No doubt Scout would be running around, badgering everyone to start a game of impromptu baseball. Soldier would grab the Cardboard Platoon and go for a marathon ruck. And Demo wanted nothing more than to join him.

But, alas, sun or no sun, tomorrow was Monday. Monday required an ample supply of grenades and sticky bombs, and those things didn't make themselves. So Demo found himself in the workshop, slicing putty-like C4 into manageable bricks, with his only exposure to the sun coming through the open window.

It could have been worse, Demo forced himself to admit. The shop was nowhere near as much fun as a romp through the woods, but it was bright and clean and quiet. Pyro and Engie weren't quite as close of friends as Soldier, but they were still good people. Well, perhaps "good" was too strong of a word. "Efficient" might have been closer to the truth. So Engie might lord his degrees over the rest of them, and Pyro might fly into inconsolable rages every now and then, but at the end of the day, they knew how to do their jobs. And, more importantly, they knew how to let Demo do his. Demo could respect that. Pyro and Engie's presences comforted him, in a way. It was nice to know that he wasn't the only one sacrificing a Sunday afternoon for the sake of work.

Engie's sacrifice came with tunes; he hummed some country song Demo didn't recognize. He bent over the drafting board, pencil in his left hand, slide rule in his right, a drawling, lazy tune drifting out of him. Pyro sat on the floor near Engie's feet, a blueprint of her own before her. Actually, "blueprint" might have been something of an understatement. Every color of the rainbow covered that paper. Along with glitter. And unicorns. And, supposedly the design for a new flamethrower, though Demo couldn't see through the colorful chaos. Crazy-sweet little firebug.

Pyro's colors made Demo smile as he turned back to his work. On top of the ammunition, he needed to run more tests on his latest creation. After weeks for synthesis and endless washings with ice water, he had purified a new explosive. It was an oily, yellowish liquid that always seemed ready to detonate after the slightest shock. Unstable as a bad-tempered Scotsman, but nothing that a few rounds through respawn and a little butadiene couldn't fix. Or maybe he could use diatomaceous earth. Or PVC. God, he needed to be writing these ideas down. Demo turned away from the C4 and towards his Braille typewriter. He rolled a thick piece of cardstock onto the paper table and began.

 _May 24_ _th_ _, 1969_

 _Made this week's worth of sticky bombs and grenades. Ideas of stabilization of compound 681 include:_

· _Butadiene_

· _PVC_

· _Diatomaceous earth_

 _Will have to run test detonations and IR at a later date._

The typewriter dinged. Demo released the cardstock, inserted the sheet into his three-hole punch, punched it and added this sheet to a black ring binder. The binder's spine had a label, written in both print and Braille.

 _TAVISH FINNEGAN DEGROOT_

 _LAB NOTEBOOK #47_

Lab notebooks were not normally labeled as such. Most the time, their identity was obvious: a bound notebook with page numbers and a premade space of the table of contests. Once upon a time, Demo had been vaguely envious of such notebooks. They seemed so neat and compact compared to his bulky, clumsy binders.

Bulky or not, Demo had never so much as considered writing by hand. He would be blind someday, probably sooner rather than later. His eyes would go, but the neat for clean, accurate laboratory records would always be there.

"Pyro, what the hell do you think you're doin'?"

Engie's voice pulled Demo away from his thoughts. Sure enough, there was Pyro, one hand twisted in the cord of the shop's welding torch.

Pyro's hands flailed as she pointed to something on the glittery blueprint. "Mmmmph-hhmmmphm, mmmphm-hmmph, mmphity-hhmp." Only Engie could understand her mask-muffled speech.

Demo's eye traced the path of a few stray glitter particles as they fell to the floor. Pink glitter sparkling in the golden sunlight made a brilliant contrast against the concrete and steel of the workshop. The Braille typewriter always made Demo ridiculously conscious of color.

"Darlin'," said Engie, "If somethin' absolutely needs to be welded, let me do it. You'll burn the base down."

"Mmmphm, hmmph-rrmph."

"I know the equipment's supposed to be for everybody, but it ain't safe."

"Rrrmpph mmmphm."

Demo didn't want to look at his notebook any more. He fixed his eye on the C4, but it failed to take him away from his sudden melancholy. He hands had become heavy, the shop seemed dimmer, as if a cloud had rolled over the sun.

At least he was prepared for moments like these. There was ethanol in the shop's fridge.

Normally, Engie glared when Demo drank the laboratory-grade ethanol. It was an OSHA violation, the engineer said, and besides, there were probably trace amounts of benzene in it. No glares now, though. Engie and Pyro had managed to escalate their argument to one level below shouting.

"Because I said so, that's why."

"Mmmph, hmmph-mmph."

Demo tilted the bottle back and chugged. He could feel the drink more than taste it, a deep satisfying burn at the back of this throat. Once a third of the bottle was gone, he knew he only had to wait. The buzz would kick in and take the edge off all his feelings.

"Mmmph rmmph, rrrr-rrrmmph."

"Now there ain't no point in gettin' worked up like this."

"Rrrrrr."

"An' now I can't even understand ya. Calm down, child."

Ten minutes from now, thoughts of Demo's impending blindness would become hilarious. He slouched back in his chair, eyes focusing on nothing. On the edge of his attention, he heard a pop, like breaking the seal on a suction cup.

"YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!"

The voice was raspy and deep. Its unfamiliarity didn't shock Demo; it dawned on him slowly. He blinked, and there was Pyro, mask dropped clumsily on the floor.

Demo blinked and looked at the bottle in his hand. Were there contaminants in it? Some strange chemical that caused hallucinations? Or was he that intoxicated already? He blinked again, and nothing changed. He wasn't seeing double and the room was not turning backflips, so this was probably real. The secretive Pyro had actually taken her mask off. Was she really that desperate to yell at Engie?

"Not the boss of me." Pyro stood on her tiptoes, now lording a good four inches of the engineer. The height difference might have given Pyro an air of authority, but the crayons in her hand seemed to ruin the effect.

"Pyro, Py, calm down. You're prolly tired, an' that's why you're cranky."

Pyro suddenly froze.

"Now why don't you put your mask back on before…"

Engie was cut off when Pyro let out a screeching sound. She threw a quick glance at Demo, and he got a quick glimpse of her face.

God, that _face._

Pyro dived for her mask. Then she was charging for the exit, pausing only to get the mask on straight. The door slammed and Engie and Demo were left staring at each other. The fresh silence seemed the echo around the room.

"Damnit," Enige muttered under his breath. "Right sorry you had to see that, Tav. She normally don't throw tantrums. Girl just needs a nap, and she'll be right as rain."

Demo nodded. Engie's words were soothing, that image of Pyro's frantic face was seared into his conscious. "Does, does she take off her mask often for ye?"

A slight chuckle. "Every now and again, when she needs some air. Ain't no thing, really. She's just awful shy, and she'd gotten to trust me."

The "too shy" part, Demo understood. He wasn't sure if there was such a thing as "too shy" with scars like Pyro's. His eyepatch attracted plenty of stares and unsolicited comments from strangers, and that was nowhere near as extreme as what Pyro had to deal with. If he'd had half his face and a good chunk of his scalp burned away, he'd have wanted to hide, too.

Thoughts of Pyro being gawked and mocked prompted him to take another drink. Engie heaved a heavy sigh. "Can't you go out in the hall and drink actual whiskey or something?"

If Demo were sober, he might have considered it, but by now, the darkly humorous buzz was upon him. He flipped Engie off and took another swig. Something crossed Engie's face; anger or disappointment or something. Whatever it was, it made Engie storm back to his side of the workshop. He returned to his blueprint and Demo returned to his bombs. Demo would still be able to finish them. He wasn't too drunk for simple bomb-making. Not yet, at least.

* * *

 _And that's it for Chapter 1. Up next: Engie and Medic have a secret chat._


	2. In Which Heavy Boils Some Hamburger

Dinner that night managed to be a double annoyance. The first annoyance came from Heavy's cooking. The second came from the fact that Sunday meant Soldier's weekly "strategy briefing." Soldier had unrolled a map across the center of the table and was shoving figurines across its surface. Go here, go there, AMERICA, MAGGOTS! Engie tuned him out, allowing Soldier's yelling to fade into white noise. Nothing going on here that he hadn't heard fifty times before.

Most everyone else seemed to be thinking the same thing. Sniper seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. He head bobbed, and his eyes slowly flickered open and shut. To Sniper's left, Scout was mixing Sniper's food together, squishing it into a gray-green paste. Heavy would go after Scout for wasting food, Engie could guarantee it. At the end of the table, Spy was not-so-subtly reading a magazine in his lap. Demo was obviously drunk. Medic was obviously high. Pyro had popped the filter off her mask and was shoveling down food with stomach-turning rapidity. In fact, only Heavy seemed to be paying any attention to Soldier. His eyes followed the movements of the figurines and he even raised his hand to ask questions. Maybe Heavy thought there was actual information behind Solider's rants. Good for Heavy, then.

Engie exhaled and turned toward his food, even though he already knew he wasn't going to be eating any of it. It was Heavy's cooking, and Heavy possessed the extraordinary ability to make the blandest food in existence. Boiled potatoes, boiled cabbage and boiled hamburger. Everything was liberally seasoned with salt and dried dill. It made for a salty, sour-ish mush. The team complained that it was all but inedible, but Heavy flat-out refused to change his ways, saying such meals were a cheap source of calories.

Cheap source of calories? Engie figured frugality was fine and all, but Heavy took it to ridiculous extremes. Heavy would save the massive pickle jar that only contained one lonely spear, oblivious to the waste of fridge space. Or he'd wash aluminum foil and re-use it. He'd collect the plastic utensils from fast-food joints until the silverware drawers of every base were packed flimsy plastic cutlery. And whenever Heavy bought tens of cases of terrible dishwater beer because, "Boss man have health recall, so I get great deal" Engie felt like throwing his hands up in frustration. They were making millions of dollars every year; why couldn't Heavy spend money like a normal person?

By now, Pyro had finished her plate and stood to get more. Without missing a beat, Engie grabbed her by the oxygen-tank harness and pulled her back into her seat. "You've had enough, now, darlin'." Left to her own devices, Pyro would eat until she vomited. She didn't seem to understand that the food wasn't going to disappear overnight.

"I gave you plenty the first time," he said. For a brief moment, he wondered if she would still be angry from that afternoon. But she seemed to have forgotten and just lay her head on her folded arms and sulked.

"And furthermore, maggots, you will learn to respect your limits! You hear that? Respect! You!" Solider pointed at Scout. "You are going to stop standing still in a firefight. You are as weak as a daisy! Zip around, nibble at everyone's ankles, and then you run! You hear me? Run! Before a man packing actual firepower mows you down.

"And you!" Solider turned towards Sniper. "You are supposed to shoot the enemy! Shoot! Not throw piss at them. You are not a dog, maggot."

Sniper opened one eye and gave Soldier a rather half-assed salute.

There was a brief pause and Soldier drew a breath. He swiveled his head as if he were examining the team, but with that helmet in the way, it was impossible to tell if he was actually looking. For a moment, Engie hoped Solider might dismiss them, but Soldier just smacked his riding crop against the table for attention.

"And furthermore, ladies, we have evaluations coming up next week. You will sign up on the bulletin board in the common room. And then you will show up at your scheduled time and you will perform for the Administrator and you will be perfect! You are going to astonish her, maggots, or I will have my boot up all your asses. Sun Tzu said that."

And with that, he dismissed them. Slowly, Engie extracted himself from his chair, cracking his sore back.

"Herr Engineer, are ve still on for tonight?"

Engie turned, looked up slightly, and found himself staring into Medic's bloodshot, glassy eyes. The doctor's grin wasn't terribly wide, but it somehow managed to be uncomfortably toothy. The high-pitched giggle that came a moment later did nothing to improve matters.

Maybe Engie should wait until Medic sobered up a bit. Medigun fumes had been behind the RED spy's head in the fridge. They had prompted Medic to insert three baboon uteruses into Demo and orangutan testicles into Pyro "just to see what would happen." On the other hand, a high Medic was also a shaky Medic. If worst came to worst, Engie was sure he could overpower the German and run. Failing that, there was always Respawn.

"'Course we are," Engie said. The grin only got wider.

"Herr Heavy," Medic yelled over his shoulder. "Ve are goink to be doink science. Keep zhe team in line, please."

And with that, they headed towards the shop. In the distance, Scout was screaming. Something about a five-day weekend. Whatever. Engie closed the shop door and locked it behind him, glad that it blocked out the noise.

"Now, vhat is all zhis? You say you need my help and now it is so secret zhat you lock zhe door?"

"You oughta sit down," said Engie. Medic perched himself, birdlike, on one of Demo's microscopy stools, and Engie turned towards his filing cabinets.

"You better be careful with this," said Engie, holding out a yellowed, fragile-looking folder. "It'll right crumbled away if you're rough."

"I am alvays careful," said Medic, flipping open the folder with exaggerated delicacy. He looked at the blueprint within, and blinked. "Zhe design for a robotic hand." He began to giggle again. "Vhere on earth did you find zhis?"

"Mr. Mann done looted my grandfather's corpse," said Engie. Technically, he had stolen the blueprints from Blutarch. Replacing Radigan's fragile originals with authentic-ish looking copies had been simple enough. Those Mann brothers were none too bright.

By now, Medic's eyes were flicking from the blueprints to Engie's gloved wrists. "Zhis is ingenious," cried Medic. Pointing to the diagram: "Zhis is meant to connect to zhe ulnar nerve, no? It will move as easily as a natural hand, vith all zhe power of a machine! Zhe possibilities. Of course I vill install it!"

"Hang on," said Engie. Jesus, should be relieved that Medic had no qualms about the procedure or disturbed by the doctor's eagerness? "If, if we're really gonna do this, you're gonna hafta take me offa Respawn, aincha? Otherwise, this ain't gonna stick when I die."

"Vell, yes, but zhat is simple." Medic waved a gloved hand as if to emphasize the triviality of the matter. "Zhe chip is right underneazh your skin. Vhy, I can feel it right here."

By now, Medic's hands were on Engie's bicep, pressing into the hard little chip. His face was right in Engie, and Engie could smell the residue of the medigun: metal and ozone.

"A tiny little cut to remove zhe chip," said Medic. "Ve vould not even have to put you under. Vhat would feel on zhe battlefield is much vorse. I could give you some vhiskey, tie you down..."

"That's enough," said Engie, untangling himself from Medic's grip. "Ain't no need to go all Civil War on me."

"Civil Var," said Medic, almost wistfully. "But really, Herr Engineer, vhen shall I do zhis?" His hands were off Engie, but he had somehow produced his bone saw, and he was stroking it rather tenderly. "It had been so long since I such a fascinatink experiment. And you vill not run, you vill not fight... _tee-hee."_

God, that grin was creepy. But at least Medic wasn't calling the idea disturbing. Right?

Engie swallowed. "How long am I gonna be outta commission from this?" he said. "If we can't get me back on the battlefield right quick, the Administrator ain't gonna be happy."

"Vell, no Repawn means no medigun." The medigun operated using Respawn data. It would cause Engie's hand to re-sprout from the stump.

Medic was pacing now, tails of his coat flaring "You use your hand, say, twenty times a day, minus you're not a bird, vell, I have no idea. Ahhaahaha! Three and a half veeks exactly."

"Exactly, huh?" Engie crossed his arms.

"Chopping off parts is really very inconvenient."

Okay, Medic's analysis of the recovery time wasn't quite right, but Engie figured it was on the right scale. Weeks of healing from the operation. That would mean waiting until Smissmass furlough. His one significant break would be spent bandaged and drugged.

"Hovever," Medic said, leaning forward slightly and dropping his voice. "I have acquired some liquefied Quickfix. Austrailian-grade vound healing accelerant. Do not tell zhe Administrator zhat I have it." Pause. "Use zhat, and ve could have you fighting again in, oh, four or five days."

Four of five days. That mean they could squeeze the procedure in during the next ceasefire. Five-day weekend, Scout had said. Maybe a ceasefire was coming up. Right, there would be a ceasefire in order to make time for evaluations. Of course.

The bulletin board said that evaluations would take place Wednesday through Friday, with three per day. So far, only Soldier and Heavy had signed up for times. The first slot, Wednesday morning, was still open.

"Ve could actually make zhis work," said Medic. "You take zhat first time and I vill take zhe last. I vill amputate as soon as zhe Administrator lets you go. Five days for you to heal."

Engie found himself holding his right hand in his left. Not five minutes ago, he would have sworn up and down that absolutely certain that he wanted that hand amputated and gone. But now, as he stared at "1000 Wednesday" it seemed more real and permanent.

No. Stop. No space for fear or emotions here. He was an engineer, a practical man. He had been handed a way to improve his body, and he would be a fool to miss this opportunity. It was about science. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that, sans Australium exposure, he would never match Radigan's ingenuity. And it certainly had nothing to do with the fact that his father had recently replaced his amputated legs with double-jointed prostheses, all the while joking about it being a "little retirement project." All about science. Science and progress.

"All righty, doc." How did his voice manage to sound so confident. "Wednesday it is." He reached to sign his name, only to fine that the bulletin board's pen was gone. Somebody had snapped the chain in half and made off with the pen. Abhorring a delay, Medic produced a pen from his coat pocket.

Engie's legs were only a little shaky as he walked back to his room. As nice as it would have been to just collapse into bed, he paused outside Pyro's door. The firebug often needed a bedtime story. Preferably something about how the dragon rescued the princess and then burned the whole village down.

Pyro's light was still on, and Engie could hear a voice. Pyro was talking to Balloonicorn. No, wait, that was Demo.

"You're a right little satirist, lass." Pause. Then Demo's voice again. "But what's he expect to happen, wearing that around case?"

Pyro had never allowed anyone other than Engie into her room. Had she decided to trust Demo now that he'd seen her face? Maybe she was telling him not to describe her to the others. Whatever it was, any sort of social interaction from Pyro was an improvement. Engie decided to leave them be, and he continued to his room, heart suddenly a little lighter.

* * *

 _Up next: A chapter from Pyro's perspective! What were Demo and Pyro talking about, so late at night?_


	3. In Which Balloonicorn Has a Tea Party

_Chapter 3 is here! Welcome to Pyroland! The drifting sky kitties will take your coat. Please enjoy a complimentary lollipop._

 _Also, bonus: I made this same offer on AO3, but whatever. Anybody who can correctly guess Pyro's nationality (or can pin down what languages she knows) gets a free fic, prompt of their choice._

* * *

 **(Thirty minutes earlier)**

"It needs more fire," said Balloonicorn.

Pyro paused and sucked on the end of her crayon. True, everything could do with more fire, but the drawing depicted welding and there were no flames in welding, just sparks. Flames could be written off as artistic embellishment, but she worried it might distract from the central purpose of the piece.

"Please, _warmicha,"_ said Balloonicorn, nuzzling against Pyro's elbow. His eyes might have appeared big and innocent, but Pyro was certain he was drunk. Balloonicorn was only this openly affectionate after a few pisco sours. The term _warmicha_ – my little wife – was a dead giveaway. Given enough booze, Balloonicorn could be quite the little slut. No wonder his wife – his real wife, not Pyro - was cheating on him.

"Fire, fire, fire!" Balloonicorn bounced up and down on the desk, making all the nearby candles flicker.

Pyro growled at him. "You're distracting me." When Balloonicorn didn't stop bouncing, she picked him up and carried him over to the tea party corner. Pyro was sure the tea set had been made for dolls, but it was just the right size for Balloonicorn.

"Tea party time," said Pyro. Reindoonicorn cheered and galloped over, sitting opposite Balloonicorn. The others were not so eager. Pyro had to stick her head out the window and call for all the drifting sky kitties. One by one, they floated in and took their seats.

Once everyone was settled, Pyro knelt and kissed Ballonicorn on the very tip of his horn. The motions of the gesture were affectionate enough to conceal her annoyance. "Just let me finish this," she said, "And then I'll draw you a beautiful picture full of fire and blood."

Balloonicorn did a little dance of joy and tossed confetti into the air. Behind him, the sky kitties giggled. They were always mocking Balloonicorn and Pyro had never had the heart to stop it.

Somewhat resigned, she climbed back onto the desk and continued drawing. She had drawn herself in the picture, wearing her favorite firefighter's hat. It was a nice little self-portrait, but it didn't center on her. She was off to one side, wielding a finished Phlogistinator. The metal cage was what really dominated the picture. Its lock had been welded shut. Pyro had even included the label "welding by Pyro" so there would be no confusion. Engie was inside the cage, looking rather sad. Perhaps he was sad about the cage, perhaps he was sad about his appearance. Pyro had taken Engie's moderate chubbiness and exaggerated it. The Engie in the picture had three chins and a shirt that was too small for his belly. The socks-and-sandals combination, however, was not an exaggeration. Engie had actually worn such a thing around base.

Underneath all this, Pyro had written, "ENGINEER IS A SHORT FAT BALD BASTARD" in her neatest handwriting. She was fairly certain it was spelled correctly, which was easier said than done. Sometimes, it seemed like English spelling had been invented by an actual crazy person.

The whole picture thing was actually pretty mean, Pyro had to admit to herself. Especially since she was going to post it on the bulletin board. Scout would running around laughing and make sure everyone saw it, and Soldier would use it as an excuse to assign Engie extra workout. So yes, it was mean, but she was angry. What did Engie think she was going to do, turn the welding torch on the base for shits and giggles? (All right, the thought was tempting.) But she was making a Phlogistinator, and she needed it more badly than she needed to watch something burn.

The drawing was almost completed. She just had to add the details on her mask and on Engie's face. Crayons were too thick and clumsy for this; she'd need a pen or something. There was probably one in one of the commons areas.

The halls were mostly empty except for the sounds of Scout raiding the fridge. In the common, room, Pyro found her pen. Unfortunately, it was chained to the bulletin board. She fiddled with the thing, trying to find a way to unhook it, and the flimsy ball chain snapped in half in her hand. Oh, well. The pen had a tail. It would still write.

Speaking of writing, Pyro noticed that only Heavy and Solider had signed up for evaluations. The very thought of the whole evaluations process made her wince. For her last evaluation, the Administrator had invited Pyro over for dinner and then tried to kill her.

Seven times were still open. Pyro could go first and get it over with. Or she could go last and hope that the team would give her some idea of what to expect. Then again, last would drag out the process and the tension of waiting might be unbearable. Where was Balloonicorn when she needed him? He might not have the best advice, but bad advice was better than no advice. Right? Shrugging, she headed back towards her room.

"Hullo, lass."

Demo had a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he were preparing for tomorrow's hangover. For a moment, Pyro hoped that Demo might have sobered up a bit, but when he took a step, he staggered. He was right beside her now, reaching out as if to pat her on the back.

Pyro didn't remember much about her childhood, but she remembered her mother warning her about drunk men and their intentions. No, she'd known Demo for years. He'd never try anything like that. What did he want, then? He had seen her face, but was probably too kind to make fun.

She could just ask what he wanted. No, he'd never understand her. If she spoke, he'd probably ask her to take off the mask and repeat herself. Damn it. Engie was never around when she needed him to translate.

In the absence of any better idea, Pyro growled her displeasure.

"Easy, easy. Don't let this ol' cyclops scare ye."

Was she scared? Yes? No? Maybe just a little? Unsure of how to respond, Pyro cocked her head a bit.

"I only mean to ask if ye're doing all right. I reckon this afternoon didn't go so well for ye."

It didn't go well for you either, she wanted to say. You don't bust out the ethanol when things are going well.

"But ye en't worrying too much, I hope. At least don't worry about me. I won't go telling anyone anything. Cross me heart on it." And with that, Demo drew a clumsy 'x' over his chest.

That was awfully sweet of him. Pyro nodded and crossed her own heart to show she understood. The pen was still in her hand.

Demo blinked, looking at the pen. "Did, did ye get that from the bulletin board?"

Pyro did her best to make an innocent face, futile as the gesture was.

"What're ye going to do with a cheap thing that that? En't much good for drawing. Only good for burning, am I right?" Demo grinned at his own joke.

Did he think she burned everything she could get her hands on? Pyro made an irritated noise and mimed writing.

"Ye write? I didn't think ye knew how."

Oh, great. Now he thought she was illiterate. This was probably about those stupid IQ tests the Administrator had made them take. Pyro had gotten a score of 62. Well, screw that. She'd like to see the Administrator take an IQ test in her third language.

"Of course I can…" Pyro's voice trailed off. She didn't know why she tried to communicate if the team heard nothing but mumbles. Better to show him. She ducked into her room, ignoring the cloud of smoke that came rolling out. Demo followed her and immediately started coughing.

"How many .. I see ye like scented candles. Lordy above, yes ye do. Ye know, ye can burn those things one at a time."

What fun was one little candle flame? But that wasn't important. Pyro whipped the drawing off the desk and held it out.

"Engineer is a short fat bald bastard." Demo snorted. "Ye're a right little satirist, lass." Pause. He gestured towards the stack of blank paper, indicating that she write her response.

Pyro didn't know how to reply, so her first instinct was to draw a question mark. No. Wait. Engie had told her how to reply to compliments.

 _Thank you,_ she wrote.

Demo was studying the drawing in greater detail now. The socks-and-sandals detail seemed to amuse him. "Well, what did he expect, wearing those around base?"

 _Pretty bad, yes?_

Demo nodded. He put the drawing back on the desk and examined Pyro for a minute before speaking. "Are ye quite sure ye're all right? It seems you're terribly mad at Engie."

Pyro sighed and flopped on the desk filter-first. Too many feelings coursed through her, more than she could ever write or even speak. Engie, Engie. How was she to start it? She could start at the beginning, remind Demo that Engie had approached her while the rest of the team baulked in fear. Go on with the story, talk about how Engie was the only one who listened when the Director suggested medication. Describe how Engie had held her during those terrible weeks when she had been dropping in and out of hallucinations. Recall the conversations where Engie explained that the world was not made of candy and rainbows, and that she was a mercenary in the United States, hired to burn her contractual enemies.

How could she express that she was grateful, that she really was? And how to balance that with all of Engie's little annoyances. That he had never tried to understand her food-hoarding tendencies, because he had never gone hungry in his life. That he did not understand why she wanted to weld so badly. That he didn't understand her need for control, because he had never been told he couldn't do anything he wanted.

"Pyro? Did ye hear me."

 _Everything's fine,_ she wrote. _Sleep now?_

"If ye're sure," said Demo.

Yes, she was sure. Goddamnit, she had to be sure, because, otherwise, she might go even crazier. She nodded to herself and held the door open for Demo. Without another word, he left.

* * *

 _And that's it for chapter 3. Up next: What are the repercussions of Pyro's drawing? Dun dun duuunnn!_


	4. In Which Balloonicorn Gets Laid

In the end, Scout, Spy, Pyro, Sniper and Demo did not sign up for evaluations. Soldier took offense at this. He wrote in their names himself and immediately assigned the "faithless lay-about Commie maggots" to an obstacle course of his own design. Engie watched as a weaponless Sniper was forced to scramble through a pit full of raccoons.

Soldier's punishments could be plenty cruel, but Engie was mostly glad that Soldier had found someone else to yell at. Ever since Pyro had posted that drawing, it had been nothing but "Get a move on, lardass! Even the retard figures you're fat!" He had run more extra laps and done more extra pushups than he could count.

So he was vaguely pleased when Soldier turned a fully pressurized fire hose on Pyro. ("You call yourself an arsonist? Resist the firefighter's weapons! Come at me! Come and get me!")

"Vatch," said Medic, and he made some notes in his lab notebook. "Zhey are all goink to ask me to zhem. Zhey are adults, zhey can respawn instead. And it had better be before zhey are rabid and foaming at zhe mouth."

"Right," said Engie. Raccoons and rabies were all well and good, but he wished Medic would get on it with it. Medic kept the infirmary at about fifty degrees and turned up the lights until they were blindingly bright. Engie was shivering on the examination table, wearing nothing but his boxers.

Engie understood the importance of a pre-operation physical, but Medic was taking forever. Height, weight, heart rate, blood pressure. Medic tested Engie's reflexes and listened to his lungs. He had injected Engie with sulfa. ("Listen, Frankenstein, it says in my medical records that I'm allergic to sulfa." "Vell, I just had to see vhat would happen.") He had been stabbed with an Epi-pen twenty-six times. Medic had opened his chest cavity and fingered all of his organs. ("So tiny! Remember vhen I installed zhe Uber implant? Zhat gorilla heart was too big for you. I had to get a chimpanzee heart!"

"Look, are we done yet?" Engie finally snapped.

Medic shrugged. "Vell, I guess. I'm out of ideas."

Swearing under his breath, Engie struggled into his shirt and overalls and headed for the door.

"Oh," Medic cried after him. "And if you see any of zhe others, tell zhem I am off-duty for zhe night."

The "faithless lay-about Commie maggots" seemed aware that Medic was not in the mood for healing. Engie did not see a single wounded merc seeking the doctor. In fact, he was able to settle into bed with no interruptions. Worn out, he was quickly asleep.

He woke not to his alarm but to a hand clasped over his mouth. He gasped and sputtered but didn't try to make out the person's form. He already knew it was Pyro.

"Can I sleep with you?" Engie's night vision was adjusting now. Pyro's mask clashed horrifically with her pink onesie.

"Girl, you're got some nerve coming in here." But Pyro had already climbed into bed and wiggled under the blankets. Great. Now she'd never leave unless he physically shoved her out. Angry as he was, he knew he'd never be able to do such an ungentlemanly thing.

"You have your own bed, you know," he grumbled.

"Balloonicorn and Reindoonicorn are having sexy times and they're being really loud."

Engie groaned audibly. "No, they're not. You're hallucinating. It's all in your…"

"In my head," Pyro pushed herself to her elbows. "I know. Is not important if they're real. I hear them anyway. I even said, _sayk'usqan kashiani_. I said, I'm tired, you can be more quiet, no? Reindoonicorn stuck out her tongue and they just got louder. Come one, Engie, when you try to sleep, do you want to hear…"

"No." He didn't even want to imagine what unicorn sex must sound like.

Pyro wiggled back under the blankets, wrapping them around herself in a way that made Engie think of a small animal burrowing into its nest. Then she wiggled up against his back, spooning him, and made a high-pitched sound. Engie reminded himself that he was angry with Pyro. Her touch was nice and she was awfully warm in that onesie.

No. He really ought to haul Pyro back to her room. Teach her that she couldn't insult him with impunity. Pyro was an adult; let her learn that actions have consequences. On the other hand, was there really point to dragging Pyro anywhere? Half the time, she never got it, no matter how many times he repeated himself.

"Engie?" Fingers poked him in the back. "Are we still angry?"

Well. Maybe she was learning something. He gritted his teeth. "I'm still pretty damn angry, sweetie, if you wanna know the truth."

"I'm angry, too," said Pyro. "I hate it when this happens."

Engie wasn't sure how to reply to that. The silence dragged on between then. "Are you plannin' to, I dunno, apologize?"

"You will apologize?"

"For what? I didn't do anything to you."

"You don't let me weld."

Another groan.

"I'm angry," said Pyro.

Engie detached himself from Pyro's arms and rolled over so they were face-to-mask. "Darlin'," he said, "You drew something cruel. You did it knowin' it was gonna make Soldier lay into me. That's what this is about. The welding is beside the point."

"Is not," said Pyro. "Welding is the whole point. All of it."

"We've been through this once before. Just tell me what needs to be welded, and I'll take care of it."

"I'm doing better, Engie. The meds help. I know where I am. I know what I do. I'm practically sane."

"Look, I know you think well of yourself, Py…" His voice trailed off. You're not all there, he wanted to say. You're horrifically absentminded, and once something burning, you'll likely forget where you are. You'll get carried away, and that workshop is full of my blueprints and Demo's lab notebooks. And no, you are not sane. Your very presence in this bed assures me of that.

"It just ain't safe," he finally said. "An' there's more to welding than waving a torch around."

"You can teach me, no?" Both her hands were on his now. "Ceasefire is coming up. The Administrator evaluates us on Wednesday. After that, lots of time."

Well, shit. Engie hadn't told the team about the surgery or the Gunslinger, and he hadn't been planning to do so. Blab to the team, and sooner or later, the Administrator would find out. Engie's contract did not expressly forbid self-mutilation, but he had the feeling the Administrator would try to put a stop to things. At the very least, she make him fill out a massive amount of paperwork.

Maybe he could tell just Pyro? Pyro couldn't tell the others even if she wanted to.

How would that conversation go? Pyro, darlin', I'm gonna have Media lop off my hand tomorrow night. It's for science. Oh, and I'm gonna be drugged and sick all weekend, so I've got no time to teach you to weld. At best, Pyro wouldn't understand his motivations. At worst, she'd fly into one of her rages. There would be tears everywhere, and something would end up burning. Pyro would have given up Balloonicorn to get rid of her scars. She probably wouldn't take to self-mutilation kindly.

"Teach me," Pyro repeated.

Better to just deflect the question. "I still don't understand why you're hellbent on doing this yourself. You can do your job just fine without welding."

"I want to, how you say it, I want to make my weapons. Then I own them. I know you understand a person's pride in making weapons."

Engie couldn't pretend he didn't understand. But he also couldn't pretend this was making him any less nervous.

"I never got to choose anything," said Pyro. She was sputtering now, struggling to get the words out. She was almost never this vocal. "My brother put me in the madhouse, even after I said no. The Administrator never said, do you want to be a mercenary? She just took me up and brought me here. I didn't ask for Balloonicorn or the sky kitties. They just came." Her fingers were so tight around his hands that they were starting to interfere with his circulation. "I don't do anything, Engie. Things do themselves to me."

Something was twisting in Engie heart, more the fact that she had spoken about her feeling than the contents of her speech. "We'll see," he said finally. That was best. Perfectly noncommittal, and it didn't imply that anything was going to happen during ceasefire.

Pyro squeed with delight, then paused. "Now is when I say thank-you, right?"

He smiled. "Sure is."

"So when is 'we'll see?'"

Shit. "Let's get past evaluations first. And for right now, let's focus on sleep. Nothin' good will come of fallin' asleep on the battlefield."

Pyro nodded. "Good night, Engie."

"Good night, Pyro."

The firebug shifted a little and became very quiet and still but Engie wasn't sure if she was actually asleep. It was impossible to tell with the mask. Some part of him wanted to get up and move around. Maybe get a snack, something to ease his worry. But then Pyro might wonder where he was going and pester him with questions.

Oh, God. What had he agreed to?

No. Stop. Pyro was no his priority right now. Just like he'd said: another days' battle, then some hellish evaluations, then surgery and recovery. He had to focus on getting through this week. Pyro could come later.


End file.
